Streaking white hot sky behind him, Sergeant Lennard's Mk3 Dispatcher Fighter roared it's arrival upon the battlefield.
"Praktik Vector achieved Com. Initialising retroactive thrusters."
A sizeable BVWUUM hit Lennard in the chest as the jet's breaks began their job, and his speed was slowed to a manageable one.
This would be his speed from here on out.
The craft's batteries were already at 85% simply from breaking.
"Nominal speed set Commander."
The com channel crackled an unnatural buzz. Lennard, our of habit, raised a gloved hand and banged the headset. But, the crackle played on. Kinetic maintenance took a few tries...
Communication jamming had probably set in by now...
His eyes rose to attention. Knowing to scour the skies ahead.
From the stretching green and yellow savanna that rolled past below him, he saw in the distance, a great monument rise from the ground. The mountain of Yarnasan. The throne of Yarnada City.
Dark steel grey, speckled with green trees, like a moss beard it lorded over the landscape. Commanding and empirical.
Though, the rising pillars of soot and ash had already spread a dark visage across the landscape.
Vast fires raged in the inner landscape of the metropolis.
Towering edifices of corporate enterprise stood leaning over as smoke and rubble tumbled forth from their high offices.
Black slowly spread across the city as ash permeated the very air.
"Dear..."
Tears, inextricable tears started to pour from his eyes.
"Again..."
His shivering hands wracked by sobs barely managed to control the craft as a barrage of thunderous bolts collided with the side of it.
Force, stronger than a sucker punch to the gut, sent the MK 3 barrelling off in a path directly interceptual to the savanna below.
His helmet's visor connected sharply with the roof of his cockpit as his legs felt themselves being ripped from their sockets. Still holding in somehow.
Outside, the world spun in a blazen mixture of colours. Like some pastel painting smeared across the canvas of a great artist.
The spiral of death is a situation any academy knew to teach of. Any graduate pilot knew the technique of,
And any military pilot worth their soul knew, to make happen.
As Lannard willed his legs down, so too did gravity will his helmet further into the roof.
The straps of his seat cutting deep into his flesh. He felt and heard the sound of crumbling, splintering, cracking glass as his helmet visor shattered in front of him. His voice, strained against gravity, managed a gravelled cry to his commander.
" HIT! "
The world was pulling him in.
Lennard.
He could not see to fly.
But he could feel, not to fall.
Took his breath. Firm.
Held.
Reached his gloved hand out.
Gripped.
The flight stick, pulled right, counter to his spin.
Down slightly.
Adjust for angle.
Thrust.
The jet around himself almost pushed away without him.
His other glove.
Hung in the air in front of him now.
Up and down in check somehow now.
His hand had slipped out. Working its way against the strangulating pull of gravity.
Like a worm, it inched its way along the helmet, until it found one latch for his visor.
It clicked, and half of the shattered visor flung itself outward.
The pure unrelenting fire of the morning sun poured into his vision. Striking needles of pain deep into his eye.
The hand inched more.
Click.
The second half gone.
Blinding light ahead.
YOU ARE READING
World In Turmoil
Science FictionAmongst the empires of the galaxy. Between the factions and the territories. On a rustic world left to itself. A young man had heros once... They were a force sworn to protect. They were a navy of saviours. In a time of need. ...
